As Tall As Lions
by sarsaparillia
Summary: You, you, you, you. Four could have beens, and one that was. — Senshi/Shitennou.
1. the lighthouse

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to all the incredible Senshi/Shitennou writers who make me sob in envy and joy with their… utter incredibleness. this is for you, please accept my love?  
><strong>notes<strong>: _agh, I've become a dubstep zombie. Chloe, __**help**_!  
><strong>notes2<strong>: I'm sort of a history junkie. this should be five chapters. no more, no less. hi.

**chapter title**: the lighthouse  
><strong>summary<strong>: You, you, you, you. Four could have beens, and one that was. — Senshi/Shitennou.

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**alexandria;**

The heat that rose from the stones that day was unbelievable. The sun had only barely risen, and already it was promising to be one of the hottest days of the year so far. The putrid smell of rotting fecal matter and sea-water made the eyes water and the nose flinch. The furnace glare of noon hung just out of reach, out of sight but threatening, and the entire populous hawked their wares in the marketplace before it got too hot to do anything more than cling to the shade underneath green-and-white striped awnings and try not to die.

Alexandria was cooking in its own sweat and blood, and no one had the time or the will to pay attention to anyone else. For one girl, this was a very good thing.

Mié flashed down the cobbled stone, a streak of girl flesh a little more lively than the sand-coloured dust of the backdrop. Gold hair fanned out in tendrils behind her as she ran, a sheet of sunshine held up by a thick red thread. She dodged underneath a squawking line of water fowl, nose wrinkled up, and checked to see that her quarry remained uncrushed.

She clutched the package to her chest. Her Lady had requested olive bread from the market—_olives_, really, _what_ was Selene thinking? Olives were not easy to come by, even in the Royal kitchens!—and had sent her oldest friend on a mission to find it.

This request, of course, Mié had had vehemently refused. It was utterly improper.

But Selene had been determined. The Pharaoh's daughter had turned watery blue eyes and dangerously powerful charm on Mié, tears down her cheeks with her lip stuck out in the most pathetic pout anyone had ever seen.

Mié was ashamed to say she crumbled like a honey cake.

After all, if she hadn't, Selene would have turned to one of the others. This was not a question because when it came down to food, her princess was notoriously greedy. Amisi was far too shy to venture outdoors on her own, Mkit preferred the kitchens, and Oshairana would have set fire to every man who looked at her the wrong way.

Not a promising outlook.

And so that was why Mié was dashing through the cobbled Alexandrian streets in the middle of the morning, dust and spattered mud clogging up her skin, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead. She would have to bathe when she got back to the palace to get the stink of manure and _marketplace_ out of her hair.

For a moment, Mié was vaguely annoyed.

But it was hard to stay at all bothered with the princess Selene, especially when Mié considered all the possible ways in which she could exploit this new debt. There _had_ been that beautiful new white stallion that the Romans had brought with them last trip…

And Mié did so love beautiful things.

She was so consumed with her thoughts that she didn't even realize her sandal had caught on the edge between stones and that she was falling until she was about to hit the ground.

_Oh no_…

The bread went out of her arms as the air left her lungs. Mié tumbled straight into the arms of a strange man, and didn't even have time to register what was properly going on. The sky and earth inverted, she shrieked and clung to the solid pillar of flesh.

"Are you quite alright?" he asked, and set her down.

Mié ignored him completely. It was a slight, but she did not have _time_ for manners—she had to find the bread—and she dropped to her knees. Dirt crusted and rubbed into her favourite linen shift—_Isis_, _why_—

"Is this what you're looking for?" he asked again. His tone was a shade more frigid. He proffered something.

And there it was. The stupid _olive bread_ that Selene was so desperate for, it was in his hands and he was getting it _dirty_ and Mié was just going to _kill_ him. She raised her head, to smile at him with her teeth sharp and shining in the sunlight, exactly like the lighthouse that glittered just above the ocean's diamond surface.

For a very short moment, she was stunned frozen by his colouring. Such pale hair and eyes were not often seen in Alexandria.

This did not make her any more sensitive to his plight. She reached for the bread.

"I'll have that back, thank you," she murmured, smile still fixed upon her lips. Gold as the sun shone across the desert, her hair spilled across her shoulder. She plucked the salt-sweet loaf from his hands, and tucked it securely under her arm. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Have we met before?" he asked. He sounded so serious that Mié tipped her head back to take another look at him.

But no, she would have remembered hair like that. Mié was sure of it. She shook her head, slow and graceful.

"No, I don't think so."

He stared down at her. The sun glinted off the kohl lined darkly around her eyes. He was looking for something in her face, but Mié had nothing left inside of her—she did not know this man, and did not want to know him. Her back was up, and she fought away shivers that had no place in such a hot day.

He studied her for another moment.

Mié didn't give an inch.

"OI, KHENTI! MHOTEP'S WONDERING WHERE YOU GOT TO! WE GOT FISHIN' TO DO! YOU ALIVE? KHENTI—?"

The call came from far off down near the docks, and the man looked around, annoyed. "SHUT IT, NSU."

He glared that way for only a second, then shook his head and returned his attention to Mié. She smiled at him, but it was not kind. "Khenti? Leader?"

"Yes."

He was wary. Good.

"I'll be sure to pass your name along to the royal family," Mié said, voice smooth as the crest of a sand dune after a wind storm, "as an explanation for why I was late. That should be just fine, no?"

She thought he was grinding his teeth.

There was something strangely satisfying about it.

Mié readjusted the bread under her arm. There was no sense in worrying about it now—a little dirt never hurt anyone, and Selene would be perfectly happy with what she could get her hands on when her mother wasn't looking. Without another word, she turned, and began to walk away.

Over her shoulder, she said "Mié. I'm Mié."

She giggled about the dumbstruck look on his face for the rest of the walk home.

Two weeks later, she would be told about a storm out at sea that had taken the lives of all the fishermen out on the water. She knew, without needing to be told, that he and his whole crew had drowned.

Something inside of her clicked shut, locked and closed, waiting for another lifetime.

Mié resolved not to think of it any longer.

—

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_tbc_.

**notes3**: oh my god, I am so scared right now.  
><strong>notes4<strong>: please do not Favourite/Alert without leaving a review!


	2. one thousand and one nights

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to de-stressing after a very scary essay.  
><strong>notes<strong>: chilling in my best friends basement seems to be pretty productive?

**title**: one thousand and one nights  
><strong>summary<strong>: You, you, you, you. Four could have beens, and one that was. — Senshi/Shitennou.

—

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**syria;**

The night was young.

Horse musk scented the blue-violet air; a fire crackled merrily just out of sight. The lamps glowed orange and smoky, thick with incense and the heady essence of opium and sweet mint tea. It curled around the occupants of the tents; girls with jewel eyes clothed in jewel fabric sat cross-legged in a circle, eyes trained on the speaker.

She wore red; a glittering red veil over ink-black hair and thick lashes. Fortune-teller, gypsy woman, she was the only child of a rich sheik—but girls who saw things in fire did not make good wives, Allah knew.

But they did make good story tellers.

"—but the fisherman was clever." She paused, and looked around at them all with a tiny little upward quirk to her lips. "He implored the ifrit to show him how he'd gotten into the lamp. The ifrit was so eager to show off that he flew to the lamp, and hid inside."

She glanced around, eyes flashing dark purple.

"The fisherman slammed the lid down, and trapped the genie inside."

Her audience gasped a little, captive to the words and the heady incense that saturated the air.

It was an easy thing, to end it there. "Ah," Ru'a said softly, "I think that is enough for tonight."

The collective sigh was somewhere between disappointed and dreamy; most of her darling audience were still trapped in the fantasy world she'd spun with words alone.

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?" Sakeena sighed. "To have a genie, and wishes. It would be so nice."

Minnah and Makkiyah nodded, heads pressed close together as Ru'a's words played on echo over their skin. They shivered, and then the horses snorted from outside, suddenly enraged.

That could not be a good sign.

Ru'a stood in a fluid movement, reaching for her charms and her knife all at once. She held a finger to her lips and her company nodded, all tight mouthed and hard-eyed. To protect the sultan's daughter was of the upmost importance—and it was Minnah's cool gaze that had the girl standing down and hiding. If Sakeena died, everything they had worked for would be for naught; years and years of effort and careful planning, wasted.

The girl who saw with fire would not allow it.

"Get Sakeena out of here, Akilah—into the back—" Minnah whispered the order, and the short, dark-haired girl nodded and looped her arms around their precious blonde lady. Sakeena didn't even fight—it had been like this always. They crowded around her, trying to force her to safety and Ru'a—

(a breath)

—left the four of them squabbling, slipping out into the night with her grandfather's jambiya hidden in the blood red folds of her thawb. She would not allow whoever it was to encroach on this, the home they'd built for themselves.

A blur of movement; the stamping of hooves. Dust rose, and Ru'a barely drew breath.

"Hello?" she called, gone loose-limbed but tense with the readiness to fight. The moon shone white and calming, streaming down Ru'a's dark hair. She stood, and she waited.

And from the dust, a man emerged.

Ru'a went perfectly still.

He was the most beautiful human being she had ever laid eyes on, hair pale in moonlight that would be gold as sunshine and sand dunes in the light, and blue eyes like a bonfire doused in oil. There was a strange cast to them, though, and something tightened inside of her.

She took a step back, and closed her fist around the hilt of her dagger.

He could one step the wrong way, and she would gut him.

"Jasim?" asked a voice from behind him, thick and choked with dirt. Male. For a split-second, Ru'a was terrified. How many of them were there? How long would she be able to give Sakeena and Akilah to run? _Would_ they even get away at all?

And then Minnah at her side, cold-eyed and blank-faced. Ru'a didn't move to acknowledge the other girl's lead, but she didn't need to. There were times when Minnah led, but there were also times when Ru'a took lead.

"I am Ru'a. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?" she asked, soft and slow. "We do not have much, but we have enough to feed strangers."

He stared at her for a very long time.

And then:

"Yes," he said. "My brother and I have travelled very far. Tea would be appreciated. I am Jasim."

And Ru'a nodded, a strange flush creeping up her neck as he continued to stare.

Minnah's glance was sharp, and Ru'a thought hard about the little bottles of sleeping powder hidden among the tea supplies, and she hoped that Minnah saw the unspoken sentiment.

From the smile that spread across Minnah's face, Ru'a thought she understood perfectly.

And later, when both men had fallen prey to the carefully mixed, Ru'a dragged them both outside, and slit their throats. The sand soaked red with blood; she left the bodies for the buzzards. They, surely, would appreciate it.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and went inside, heart clenching erratically.

She hated killing.

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_tbc_.

**notes2**: never wanted to dance with nobody but you—  
><strong>notes3<strong>: be fabulous and drop me a review? I would love that. :)


	3. carnavale di venezia

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: okay seriously my girl-crushes are out on control. can I just be in lesbians with everyone.  
><strong>notes<strong>: I do less historical evasion than you think I do in this fic.

**chapter title**: carnavale di venezia  
><strong>summary<strong>: You, you, you, you. Four could have beens, and one that was. — Senshi/Shitennou.

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**italy;**

It was the third day of the Carnival, and Venice had already lost its mind.

The newly-constructed Rialto Bridge glimmered in the reflection off the water. It was unseasonably warm, that winter; the breeze off the ocean had not brought the freezing rains that Marinella so looked forward to every year to clean the city of its trash. The air tasted like salt and rust, sharp against her tongue as sea-water and swill. Venice blazed with light, echoing with gamblers and tricksters and thieves along the darkened edges of the canals.

Marinella hated this city.

She hated the thick smoke and the courtesans and the canals. She hated the closed-in sky and the lack of proper care and the canals. She hated the disease and the stench and the rotting meat and the canals. And she hated canals.

Dear God, she _hated_ the canals.

January was a strange month, right to the very end. It was keyed up with anticipation, a little bitter around the edges, reaching out for the frayed hem of the Carnival like a child at Christmas too excited to sleep. Marinella had almost been able to taste it in the days leading up to the opening night; the magic of the Carnival lingered in the air days before as the city prepared for the influx of noble visitors from the surrounding cities. Lent was just around the corner, and Venice—ah, beautiful, wild Venice—prepared for its coming by being more loud and boisterous than ever.

(Marinella really did hate this place.)

The covered gondola cruised smoothly through the water. Laughter filtered in from the outside, but Marinella did not move. She did not even breathe, too busy clutching to her Lady's arm as they passed beneath the Rialto.

"Hush, darling," Serafina whispered softly in her ear. "We're almost there."

Marinella did not fear Death, for she was sure that God would take her into his care. But she did fear drowning. She could do little more than nod, and it was with a profound sigh of relief that her feet returned to solid ground.

But not for long.

They were swept into the familiar palazzo. Piazza San Marco was thronged with people from the outside; everyone who was anyone knew that the Governor of the Republic threw the best parties.

But the masks and the swirl of coloured fabrics were enough to disguise the most stubborn of them. For during the nights of the Carnival, there were no lines that could not be crossed—enemies could kiss the nights away underneath the stars should they so choose, and no one would say anything.

The masks during the Carnival hid the class restrictions that had always plagued Venetian life. For the duration of the Carnival, the city lost its mind, and class became secondary.

The Carnival brought magic to an otherwise boring world filled with weaving and waiting to be married. Marinella had never wanted that sort of life, but regardless of what she wanted, she was the daughter of the noble house _di Giove_, and she was bound to that duty. She would not abandon it, but during the Carnival—

Well, during the Carnival, everyone shed the obligations of everyday life.

Marinella crossed the floor, in a costume a pale green the colour of the new leaves under a white sky, gem-studded and embroidered across with a whirlwind of oak leaves. Face hidden behind gold leaf and cool molded leather, she could have been anyone but for the auburn curls that snaked across her bare shoulders.

And already her friends had dispersed to mingle with the crowd.

She floated to the dance floor, caught by the music that poured from the orchestra. There were many couples dancing already, and she watched them, longing.

"My lady. You are alone."

Marinella whirled towards the voice, eyes going wide. That voice—it couldn't be—

"I beg your pardon?" she nearly gasped.

Deep blue eyes behind a baùtta twinkled merrily, and he offered his hand. Marinella knew of only one man who had that colour gaze. He was also the only man brash enough to approach her without preamble.

"Would you care to dance, darling?" he asked.

He had never called her _darling_ aloud, before.

Niccolò D'Stelle stood before her in finery that belonged on a much richer man, and presented a choice.

Marinella wasted no time.

There was no choice, only the closing of her throat—the Carnival had allowed them this. She would dance with him and give him her heart, but her body would never truly belong to either of them.

She dropped her fingers into his grip, and allowed him to lead her to the floor.

They danced the night away, revelling in the heated insanity of love and lust.

For after the Carnival, she was to be married.

And she would never see him again.

Marinella closed her eyes, and kissed the lipless mouth of his mask as a final farewell.

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_tbc_.

**notes2**: god damn it, I want to go back to Venice. /sob  
><strong>notes3<strong>: drop me a review and say hello please? :)


	4. big ben

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to Warrior of Ice. again. I'M SORRY I CAN'T HELP IT I'M A CREEP.  
><strong>notes<strong>: more historical evasion. women were not allowed to hold a seat in the House of Lords (English Parliament, that is) in the nineteenth century. shit like that just didn't fly. also, the Marquess of Zetland wasn't bestowed until 1892, and this chapter is set in the early 1830's. & the Duchy of Leicester didn't actually exist at this point in time. oh well.

**title**: big ben  
><strong>summary<strong>: You, you, you, you. Four could have beens, and one that was. — Senshi/Shitennou.

—

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**england**;

The late toll of the clock rang loudly across the Thames. Duchess Amelia Dudley of Leicester stood out on one of the balconies of Westminster Palace after Parliament had closed for the day. Late December and bitter cold, the air stunk of smoke and ash from the factories that belched black columns into the sky along the banks of the river. She was barely fifteen, hands pale and small, in a close-cut dress of ice-blue brocade silk threaded through with silver; a trophy wife in the making, had she not been so intelligent and such a close friend to the heiress apparent.

Princess Serena was the light of the court, and Amelia was her gentle, dark shadow. There were others, too—Millicent of Cornwall, the princess' cousin, with her golden hair; and Matilda of Derbyshire, too tall but so kind; and dark-haired, fire-eyed Victoria of York. In a court of intrigues and lies and scandals, the five girls stood together for protection and for friendship.

Amelia loved them all so dearly. They were the only friends she had.

And so she stood outside on the balcony, drawing slow breaths after quietly nailing a proposition against her princess to the wall. Amelia was the only one who had the will to spend her time in Parliament day after day, arguing for her princess' right to rule.

Five days before Parliament closed for the Christmas holiday, Amelia stood outside, and tried to reason her way around the feeling like sinking in her stomach.

"Amy, m'dear!"

Amelia did not even deign to turn around and grace him with a look. "Please do not address me so informally, Marquess Zetland."

The man threw his arms over the railing, golden hair curling around his cheeks. Objectively, Amelia thought, he was the most beautiful person that she had ever seen. Not that she would ever tell him that—it would only encourage him, and she had absolutely no intent to allow that.

She was fine on her own, _thank you very much_.

"But _darling_!" and the exclamation made her force a flush away. Amelia knew that such a flush could only bring misery. Zachariah of Sutherland was notorious around court, just eighteen but already cutting a dangerous swath through the ladies.

Really, though they had grown up together, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

"Do not _darling_ me, Marquess Zetland," she replied, and kept her gaze trained on the Thames. She would not look him in the eye. She would not give him the satisfaction.

"You do not enjoy my company, Amelia."

She could tell he was pouting. Amelia fisted her hands in her skirt. "No, I do not."

He touched her shoulder, softly, gently. Despite the inherent kindness and the affection in the gesture, she flinched away, biting at her lip. Her mother had always hated that habit but oh, God, her mother did not know what this man did to Amelia's insides.

She was so very fragile in his presence.

"The court is talking about you, again, did you know?" she asked. It was almost conversational, and he jumped at the opportunity.

"Amelia, darling—" he began, and she huffed at him. Zachariah chuckled, green eyes glittering wickedly. "—the court is _always_ talking about it. What is it they've said I've done now? Bedded the princess?"

Amelia sniffed. "Please. Her Highness would never allow you that close. She finds you revolting, as do I."

"You wound me so, my love," he sighed, with his hand over his heart.

"Stop that, Marquess," she told him, voice gone severe. "They're saying you're engaged to be married, if you must know. I must say, I never thought I'd see the day."

He spluttered.

Amelia, for one very short second, felt a rush of relief. Of course they were lying. Of course that nasty Countess Morley was lying. Of _course_. Zachariah—married? Who on _earth_ were they trying to kid? Did they not know this man at all?

"How did you _find out?_!"

"Pardon?"

Amelia had not known it was possible for the human voice to reach such a pitch. A funny little whinge had cracked inside of her; something that she hadn't known existed three minutes previously. It _hurt_.

"I—Amelia, my mother, you know how she is—I didn't want it, but she thinks—"

Amelia held up a hand, head bowed just the very littlest bit. _Please God, no. I don't want to cry. I can't. I musn't_. "You are at perfect liberty to marry whomsoever you like, Marquess. I—congratulations. Have you informed the Queen?"

"Amelia, Amelia, it's not—" he tried, but she only stared at her shoes.

"Have you?"

He sighed again, and then at last: "Yes."

She nodded with her head bent. "I—I should go. My mother will be wondering where I've got to. It's late, I should be home."

Amelia turned, and drew her shawl closer around her. The tightness in her throat was pain, edged ice cold and hiding just beneath her skin. She all but flew to the glass doors, feet nimble, tears welling up the corners of her eyes.

"Amelia!" he called after her. He was desperate. She could hear it in his voice.

But there was nothing to be done.

She paused, fingers closing around the gilded knob. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes?"

"I'm… it wasn't supposed to be like this."

Amelia lingered with her face turned away. When she finally did look at him, it seemed like she was years and years away, untouchable and inked in shadows and gold from the inside of the palace. The glitter of tears was brighter than diamonds in sunlight, but they had yet to streak down her cheeks—for now, they remained in the pits of eyes, more precious than the crown jewels.

"It never is," she replied, almost tender and so very soft. "Is it?"

"I love you," and he was as desperate as she was soft, striding forwards to curl his hands around her face, the fingers long and strong from years at the piano. "I love you, Amelia. I always have."

Amelia shook her head only once. "How can you say that, Zachariah? How can you?"

Then she pushed him away, and tripped over her skirt as she rushed back inside.

It was only later, as she slipped into a carriage that she allowed the tears to fall.

Across the Thames, the clock chimed dolefully into the open air.

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_tbc_.

**notes2**: I really hate scary movies.  
><strong>notes3<strong>: come say hello, beautifuls!


	5. framing tokyo

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to Vicki and Sidney, who are my Sailor Moon partners-in-crime.  
><strong>notes<strong>: welp, no more history lessons from me!

**title**: framing tokyo  
><strong>summary<strong>: You, you, you, you. Four could have beens, and one that was. — Senshi/Shitennou.

—

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**japan**;

The sun was pale gold through the Crystal Palace's walls. Harp-song wove through the halls, haunting but sweet. It slunk through the servants, winding sadness in every note. The scent of melting chocolate and smoke mingled in the air, the product of two of the Senshi's various pursuits. But it was so still, as though no one ever moved.

Neo-Queen Serenity sat with her hands folded around her distended abdomen—Chibiusa would come any day now. Her little princess, curiosity and happiness and life all wrapped up in bright pink hair and big eyes. Manipulation and sarcasm and ridiculous silliness, too, but that was part of the fun.

Chibiusa would be so loved, Serenity reflected.

Her little girl, she smiled.

It was the flash of furious red outside the translucent window that caught her eye. Serenity stood slowly, arms wrapped around her middle, and went to press her fingers against the crystal. It rippled beneath her touch and turned clear as water just another whip of flame arced past.

_Mars, then_, Serenity sighed.

_Of course_ it was Mars.

Not one of the other Senshi preferred the scent of charred human flesh. Venus would have tried to slit his throat, and Jupiter would have tried to stop his heart with a single short of electricity, and Mercury would simply have tried to drown him.

Only Mars would want to burn his bones to ash.

It was a good thing that Junpei was persistent. He had to be, to be in love with someone quite as volatile as Rei was.

Not that the others were in much better shape.

Minako turned into a soaked, hissing banshee-woman any time Kousuke came within twenty feet; Mako-chan couldn't look Nobuki in the face without nearly frying his face off; and Ami spent so much of her time determinedly ignoring Shin that it was a little bit frightening.

But Serenity knew that it wouldn't be long.

Not now.

She watched the transformation from Junpei to Jadeite, absolutely delighted when Mars took a step back and bared her teeth. He didn't want to hurt her—that much Serenity (and anyone with eyes) could see, but Mars seemed to be pushing the issue again.

It would likely end in a draw when one of them stormed off, furious or hurt (unfortunately, the furious one was always Rei and the hurt one was always Junpei. It always made her uneasy).

Again.

Not that Serenity didn't understand.

She did.

But she had Mamo-chan, and she knew how much it destroyed her Senshi to be at such odds. It was futile, that much she already knew. They just ended up on the other ends of each other's swords every time, and Serenity didn't want to have to revive any of her beloved friends.

Crystal Tokyo was supposed to be free of this sort of ridiculousness.

"They're at it again?"

Serenity twirled and smiled hugely at her husband. He crossed the floor and scooped her up, and together they stared down just in time to watch the rage finally get the better of Mars.

"Of course they are," Serenity sighed. She rested her head back against his shoulder, body going concave as she sagged. "I'm so tired, Mamo-chan. I don't want them to have to fight anymore, and they're all so sad…"

His lips brushed the top of her head.

"It's not our decision, Usako," he said.

And though it was kind, Serenity knew that he felt the same. The constant war was hard—but the knowledge of so many wasted lives was worse. They'd all felt the memories rush in. She hadn't known killing was so easy.

But there were so many wasted lives.

So much wasted time.

"We never got it right, did we?"

"Not until now," he said. His palms curved around her abdomen, and Serenity had to smile. He was right—not until now. She curled her hands around his, taking comfort in the warmth.

"This is the last chance they have, Mamo-chan. Immortality isn't… we can't go back, after this."

"I know that."

"So they have to get it right. They have to," Serenity pleaded, and she knew he was frowning as he let her work through the fears that clung to the back of her mind when no one was around to make them go away.

"Then _believe_ in them, Usako," he murmured. "We have the time. Believe in them. They'll figure it out."

And just like that, the fear evaporated.

Serenity nodded.

"I do," she said. "I do."

Below, the crash of glass against solid crystal echoed. It sounded like hope.

—

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_fin_.

**notes2**: and then they all lived happily ever after. the end.


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